


Not (Quite) About Deserve

by BlushingDragon



Series: Bite-Size Drabbles, Dragon Age Edition [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood Mage Warden (Dragon Age), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Not Beta Read, i did not start out intending to get this mopey damn, no beta readers we die like gluttons for wish fulfillment, this is what i get for writing after bedtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 12:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingDragon/pseuds/BlushingDragon
Summary: The warm brown eyes blinked, face conspicuously blank, caught so off-guard by the offer that his easy composure slipped for the first time in front of Salem before Zevran’s routine languid smile unfurled on his face. Zevran brushed off the concern like dust from his shoulders.“It is nothing I won’t adjust to, no matter how much I may complain about it in the meantime, my dear Warden.”He ducked his head and briefly wished for bangs like Morrigan’s to shade his face from the prickle of heat that he would later insist was due to the fire. Endearments were… odd, but tickled the part of him that had stashed away the better romance novels from Anders’ and Jowan’s prying eyes; the part of him that roared with every drop of his own blood that he chose to use and every other choice that he got to make.





	Not (Quite) About Deserve

**Author's Note:**

> Unintentional Wonder Woman reference in the title.

Crouched idly by the fire, Salem concerned himself very pointedly with staring into the flame, almost-but-not-quite in the direction of Morrigan’s fire. He almost wished he had the nerve to desert the main grouping of tents, but the way everyone looked at him like this was his mission took the wind from those sails rather quickly. Salem had gotten used to his companions attitude toward him, not surprised in the slightest: an elven blood mage was not someone who made many friends even under the cover of war or impending doom. Alistair, Leliana, Wynne, and Sten only stayed with him because they wanted to stop the Blight; Morrigan might admire his gumption under her unease. For the first time in Salem’s life, he understood the Fereldan admiration for mabari, as Dustin was the only companion that routinely coaxed a smile from him…  

“Warden!”

… with the exception of Zevran, who was soon catching up on that number. Salem had to assume that Zevran just hadn’t noticed the blood magic that he had used during the assassin’s failed ambush, or that he really didn’t care. Zevran hadn’t said a word even vaguely related to magic or demons in the aftermath, so Salem assumed the former rather than the later.

“Zevran,” he welcomed the assassin as his companion joined him sitting by the fire. “Settling in as well? As much as the Fereldan mud allows, obviously, but is there anything I can do for you?”

The warm brown eyes blinked, face conspicuously blank, caught so off-guard by the offer that his easy composure slipped for the first time in front of Salem before Zevran’s routine languid smile unfurled on his face. Zevran brushed off the concern like dust from his shoulders.

“It is nothing I won’t adjust to, no matter how much I may complain about it in the meantime, my dear Warden.” 

He ducked his head and briefly wished for bangs like Morrigan’s to shade his face from the prickle of heat that he would later insist was due to the fire. Endearments were… odd, but tickled the part of him that had stashed away the better romance novels from Anders’ and Jowan’s prying eyes; the part of him that roared with every drop of his own blood that he _chose_ to use and every other _choice_ that he got to make.

“Tell me about Antiva, Zevran,” Salem requested, and the lilting Antivan accent painted a picture that was nothing like a glimpse from the Circle Tower: Salem cherished it all the same.

* * *

Months later, months of trekking and killing and cajoling of persons across Thedas to lend their aid against the Blight, Salem approached Zevran at the campfire, as had become their custom. The far away and desolate look in the warm eyes that Salem had sought distraction and solace in worried the elven mage. Salem sat, not quite touching Zevran, in case the assassin needed space, though it almost hurt to withhold the comfort of even just a reassuring hand. Zevran did not turn to face him, just tilted his head back on his interlocked hands and stared up into the stars that for once went without a cover of cloud.

Zevran murmured, unprompted, in a low voice that spread goosebumps through Salem: “Do you think there are requirements to earn a second chance?”

The mage’s mind flashed back to weeks ago, the last time sadness overcame Zevran this way as he’d shared, in the privacy of Salem’s tent, the story of Rinna. If it weren’t so sad, Salem could find humor or irony in an assassin asking a blood mage about redemption; instead, Salem rallied himself by tugging on the hems of his sleeves. 

“A second chance with who?” Salem kept his voice to a whisper as well. “I think… everyone deserves to prove themselves, and I think that who can do it any number of times. People change, and so it’s really a matter of who you are now versus who you were years ago, or months ago, or last week. I, personally, learned that I have to be a better blood mage than Uldred, and I prove that to myself every day; I  _ have  _ to. So, to avoid hypocrisy, I’ll let someone prove themselves to me as many times as they need to; it should be said, however, that I am preferential to elves with knives and gorgeous accents,” he ended by edging closer to Zevran, pitched his voice down in what he hoped was something flirtatious or comforting or whatever Zevran needed him to be, really.

Finally making eye contact, the blank stare vanished from Zevran’s eyes in one swoop; the warmth and softness returned to the look that Salem had felt on his person on more than one occasion. The mage returned a smile and slowly, providing plenty of time for Zevran to retreat, reached up and pressed a tender kiss to the assassin’s cheek. 

“Will you be alright?” Salem asked.

Zevran’s smile was small: not the languid, liquid sunshine from their first meeting, but something lighter, like a breeze that pulled storm clouds away. 

“I think I will be better soon, my dear Warden. Much better.” 


End file.
